


Reginald and the Master

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bad Writing, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-09
Updated: 2010-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think Polly Oliver should take the blame for this, because she was  the one lobbing plot bunnies like hand grenades. Some of the more  interesting turns of phrase can be found on the weeping cock live journal community, though I did make an effort to not plagiarize them  word for word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reginald and the Master

I have recently discovered the way the world works. I was spared this knowledge from my soft upbringing and family wealth, but I know it now and there is no going back. I suppose it is my own fault for embarking on a career of sorts, and getting my writings published. As an artist of the word or some such, I must find accept responsibility and get things accomplished on a deadline. This world of working is not for the faint of heart!

The real terror of the working world comes when I find that I have emptied my stash of pulp. The humor is upon me to write and I have no surface upon which to do this. Ink aplenty, I could fill the bathtub with ink, but not a single sheet of paper in the flat. Jeeves is floating hither and thither, some balderdash about needing food in the flat, so I can’t even ask him for help in my time of need! I’ve looked everywhere, even the bally kitchen and the only paper is that extra bit of white at the front of books. I could rip it out and use it, I suppose, but I think Jeeves would… Well, I don’t really know what he would do, but it would be a bad time for the young master while Jeeves recovered.

Actually, there is one place I haven’t looked, where there is a greater likelihood of finding paper than the kitchen or bathroom. I admit, that place appeals to me, much the way a virgin continent appeals to the explorer. Jeeves is bound to have writing paper in his room, but it’s his room! It’s my flat, but it is the one place that belongs to him. No formal declaration has ever been made and it wouldn’t have mattered with any other servant, I guess. But this is Jeeves and his fortress of intellectual solitude. Except, if I get in and out, he won’t even know, right?

Courage set on sticky, I cross the threshold even as I wonder if that’s how that quote goes. I’m sure it’s in one of the millions of books Jeeves has crammed into this tiny room. A quick glance around, grab some paper and flee. It’s a good plan and should be easy to do, for two reasons. There are books but no other personal things to distract me. Also, Jeeves is so neat that there should be an obvious place he puts his paper. I move over to the desk, but it is so clean there are no papers on top, so I have to open a drawer. That feels really invasive, but I’m saved by the sight of crumpled waste paper in the basket.

The trash basket isn’t even a quarter full, so it wasn’t worth emptying nor were the papers so sensitive they had to be destroyed. A couple handfuls should be just enough to jot down some notes while they are in my mind. I grab said handfuls and run like Florence is after me with a vicar in tow. I get the paper to my desk and start smoothing it out so I can write on it. Jeeves will never know, but I’ve got to make sure the paper is safe to use. I see Jeeves’s precise handwriting and am rather surprised at how many corrections and crossed out words it contains. I know Jeeves is a brainy, precise kind of guy, but somehow I expected him to write as wonderfully as he spoke. Starting at the top, I read the words inked onto that bit of pulp

 _The autumnal fog dampened the spirits of even the stoutest hearted Englishman, acclimatized to such transitions of seasons and ethereal precipitation. The Lord of the manor was immune, though not from an inoculation of needle born weather, as one would be inoculated against smallpox. Lord Y., the most beloved person to hold that title in memory seemed immune to all forms of sorrow or grief. His title and money had buffered him from the most acidic components of existence, sheltering him in the embrace of contentment until reality had plucked him from it, like an unwanted hair on the forehead of a burlesque dancer._

 _To Lord Y. the meteorological apparition of vapor presented him with an opportunity he had no intention of disregarding. He had watched the miasma growing outside the large, peaked windows of his music room, as the house advanced into the quiet of nocturnal respite. Sitting back from the piano, Lord Y. turned to the door and waited, the grin on his face undignified and uncontrollable. The silence was a signal, bringing a tall man into the music room. This man who appeared, bidden by the stillness, was the tall butler who tidied up the complicated life of Lord Y. It was a large workload, but the butler threw himself at every detail, anything to improve the quality of life enjoyed by his master. Busy at his tasks the butler had not seen the rising mists, and had left those duties to see if the silence meant his master required anything he could provide._

 _“Lord Y. did you require anything, or perhaps you are ready to retire?”_

 _“Alas, Reginald, the work of a Lord never ends, as well you know. I hoped you might walk with me inspect the newly harvested wheat field.”_

 _“At such an hour, my Lord?”_

 _“Only way to tell if the earthworms are aerating the soil properly is to spot-check their endeavors.”_

 _“Very good, my Lord.”_

 _“Excellent, Reginald!” Lord Y. bounced to his feet with the vim and vigor of a youth, for though he was not yet fifty Lord Y. still retained a childish enthusiasm that made him seem a much younger man._

What? It is his writing, but what is he writing? I know he’s a creative cove, anybody who relies on his plans as much as I do could see that, but I never expected him to try and give fiction a go. At least, I think it’s fiction, as Reginald is obviously him but he’s never been a butler to a Lord Y. As for the writing itself, well Jeeves complained about my purple socks and his prose is almost as lurid! In a small way, it’s rather comforting knowing he’s not outstanding at everything he turns his hand to. Still, I can’t help myself, and I move on to read the next page.

 _The trek across the recently turned field with only one lantern between them might have proven difficult had not the moisture of the haze kept the soil sodden and giving way under their matching strides. When Lord Y. stopped, Reginald managed to not knock into the man who was so far above him, yet several inches shorter, a reversal that had annoyed previous employers of the butler. Lord Y. was further differentiated by the amusement he found in this normally vexing situation. Yes, Lord Y. was unique in many respects but Reginald was still unprepared for Lord Y. to remove his top coat and carefully arrange it on the field._

 _“My Lord, I fear you may catch an illness if you remain thus for a great deal of time.”_

 _“Well, then you should sit beside me and keep me warm.”_

“ _My Lord?”_

 _“Sit, Reginald, for I have a need to converse with you.” Unsure, unsettled, Reginald folded down beside his master. Carefully, he positioned himself so that he wouldn’t accidently brush up against Lord Y., only to find his master sliding over to mesh against his left side, stiffening the muscles that were being touched. “Best way to keep warm, particularly if you wrap an arm around me and ward off the chill on my left side.”_

 _“Very,” Reginald paused to clear his throat and attempted another affirmative as he moved into the indicated position. “Very good, my Lord.”_

 _“Reginald, do you know why I love the fog?”_

 _“No, my Lord.”_

 _“Occasionally, I find myself filled with a desire, a need even, to shout my emotions to the universe, or perhaps show them. This haze does muffle sound, but not enough from my shouting purposes, so it is the blinding quality of fog that provides me with an outlet for my emotional distress. Do you understand, Reginald?”_

 _“Partially, my Lord. I understand the need for release of pent up emotions, a catharsis of the soul, but find it odd that you should suffer from such a requirement. You are conviviality itself, open and honest with all those you deal with and I do not believe that you hide emotions.”_

 _“Trust me, Reginald, I do hide my innermost sentiments, for fear of the repercussions of their revelation. Always, there has been this reprehensible desire within my breast, and I have forced it down without mercy. Tonight, perhaps it is the weather, the planets aligning or mayhap that need is now retaliating with an equal lack of mercy.”_

 _“My Lord, If you wish me to leave for a few minutes, so you may express this need in privacy, I will do so.”_

 _“No, I have expressed my entreaty in similar settings over the years, though the need has changed since the last harvest of crops. Do you know what else had altered in the major part of a year?”_

 _“No, my Lord, I cannot make such a comparison as I only came to your employment around that time.”_

 _“Exactly, Reginald. Last year, I asked for someone to alleviate the ache in my heart, the one that kept me drinking myself to sleep every night, afraid to find all life has to offer is power and privilege. I recognize that should be adequate, but when you applied for the job I found my hope nestled under your bowler hat.”_

 _“My Lord?”_

Well, I say! My dictionary is about to split in half from the number of times I had to flip through it to find a word. Sometimes, fog should just be fog, I think anyway. I think this might be a case of his great big brain getting in the way of what he is trying to do. What is he trying to do with this? What does he plan on having his hero do in a dark, secluded field, hidden from all eyes? With the characters fawning over each other, I doubt this is a murder mystery. Jeeves’s taste though, so probably a long conversation about psychological theory or something.

I’m so sorry I read this now, but find myself wanting more for some strange reason. Tucking the pages into the back of my desk drawer, I run to scoop up the last of his papers before he returns. At the desk again, I flatten and sort, finding only one last paper of interest. Grocery lists and possible menus are set aside, while I delve into that final page of fiction.

 _The luminous rock of the moon had abandoned its post for the night, allowing them to indulge in their secret, forbidden desires in the safety of the dark, swirling mists. Reginald’s skilled hands could have had them in the altogether in forty-seven seconds, but Lord Y. opened his presents with a concern for the wrapping paper and the care that went into providing him with such a treasure. With excruciating slowness, Lord Y. touched and caressed the angel soft skin slowly being exposed to him in the low lantern light._

 _  
The dark curls at the apex of Reginald’s strong thighs, quivered, allowing Lord Y. to see the steel of his maleness, sheathed in velvet except where the tears emerged from the end. Desire coiled around Reginald’s neither regions, much like a snake nestled amongst fresh eggs, but he could only wait for his Master’s pleasure, unable to articulate his needs. Lord Y. caressed the creamy, rounded cheeks of Reginald’s posterior, deciding if he should pound into the surreptitious aperture they enclosed, thrusting until Reginald tightened around him in climactic rapture.  
_

 _  
Yes, Lord Y. thought, I shall enter him with my rose-gold warrior, whose battle juice even now threatens to drop in silvery tears to the earth. The sexual slug awakened from its bird’s nest of dark curls would be Lord Y. dessert, salty but still sweeter than any toffee. Lord Y. made a humorous face at the toffee incident, but let it fade as he ratcheted himself into his lover, his heart’s delight. They both held their breathes, this moment seemed made for breathing cautiously, Reginald’s moan of pleasure was worth the many years Lord Y. had spent alone, waiting and dreaming of this vibrant emotional cascade.  
_

I’ve forgotten about the words and wording, as I look at their meaning. Paragon of virtue, the man sought from far and wide for his brain and reasoning skills was attempting to write erotic stories in his spare time! Not only that, it would appear his two main characters were of a male nature. If I sifted through the debris of the words, it sounded like Jeeves knew what he was talking about, invert se… Think the word Bertie, it won’t bite. Sex, Jeeves was writing about invert sex like he knew about it and preferred it. Jeeves liked sex. Jeeves knew about invert sex. Jeeves was an invert!

  
I don’t know how long I stared at the page in front of me, wondering why I suddenly disliked the overly described Lord Y. He was a happy go lucky bloke, that’s all Jeeves needed to say! Or he could have filled in the name, so I’d know who Jeeves wanted to um, work for after he left me. I’ll have to find a way to ask him why he wants to leave me and what I’ll have to do to keep him, without letting him know I read his story. I’ll also have to find a way to remember he doesn’t make any noise when he walks, because his ‘sir’ just knocked me out of the chair. When he bends over to assist me, his eyes widen at the sight of the paper clutched in my hand.  


  
“I didn’t mean to read it! I ran out of paper and went to borrow some of yours, thought getting it out of your trash would keep me from going through your stuff! I’m sorry.” He pulls his attention back to me, helping me to my feet.   


  
“Sir, have you been injured by your fall?” He asks to prompt me into checking for painful spots while he rights the chair. I have far more important issues on my mind.   


  
“Forget the fall, I’m fine. Do you forgive me for reading your story?”   


  
“It is not a story, Sir. I now know I should have taken the time to destroy it before I ran my errands.”   


  
“I’m sorry, really I am and I will never do it again!” He turns away from the chair to face me with the stuffiest frog face I’ve ever seen and I feel fear expanding in my stomach.   


  
“Are you intending to perform your civic duty and report me to the authorities, Sir?”   


  
“What do they have to do with anything?”   


  
“The law punishes inverts, Sir.”   


  
“Right. Jeeves, I must say it’s a bit of a shock to find out you’re human after all. And the invert thing as well, but mainly that you have any kind of, um, unfulfilled desires.” I pace a few steps and turn around, but the extremely stuffed look on his face halts my steps. “Explain this to me and I promise not to tell anybody.”   


  
“A very generous offer, Sir.” Those words come easily to his lips, but the next batch take a little while longer to rise. “There is a psychological technique known as visualization. Theoretically, if you can see something clearly enough, you can also imagine what you need to do to make that vision a reality. This was my effort to find a way in which the event described could come to pass.”   


  
“What? Not the story, who is the Lord Y. fellow?” He blinks twice at the question but responds.   


  
“Lord Yaxley, Sir.”   


  
“You have a thing, um interest in my Uncle George?” This question earns me a quirked eyebrow with the response.    


  
“Sir, the story is a fictional account of a future date.”   


  
“Oh, so it would be the next Lord Yax…” Well, I’m well and truly dashed! Jeeves: human, interested in sex, invert and now with a desire for me! He’s looking at me with his stuffed frog face, but I can see fear in his eyes. He trusts me not to break my word about turning him in, so he’s afraid I’ll get rid of him now that I know he has designs on the Wooster corpus! But I remember how I felt when I thought he was leaving me for Lord Y. and I don’t want to ever feel that again. Could I, um, breathe cautiously with him? “Jeeves, how do you ratchet a rose-gold warrior into a surreptitious aperture?”   


  
“Sir, you will find that the functioning of the muscle in consideration is comparable to the aperture of a camera.”   


  
“Oh. I don’t think in this setting that technical accuracy is what most authors would go for, but that’s just me. How does a sexual slug become the velvet sheathed maleness of steel?”   


  
“Forgive me Sir, but there was a reason it was in the trash.”   


  
“Jeeves, I think while you’re defending your writing, you’re missing out on what I’m saying.” That sharpens his gaze on me and I color even more. “Reginald, could you really have us undressed in forty-seven seconds? Right now, because I would like to try some climactic rapture.”   


  
“Sir?”   


  
“Please, Jeeves, teach me. I’m interested, but I have my doubts. Either way, I need your guidance.”   


  
“If you will allow me to destroy the offending papers, I would enjoy such an educational opportunity.”   


  
“I kind of want to keep them, but I’ll do anything to make you happy.” I’m not sure what I said, but I don’t have the brain power to review the words as Jeeves is kissing me. My man, my Jeeves, kissing, kissing me and now his tongue is what is his tongue doing and does it matter when it feels so Lord love a duck when did he get my shirt off and is that what a nipple is for on a man and somebody just whimpered it was very pathetic I think it might have been me because Jeeves is pulling away! “I say, come back here!”   


  
“Perhaps you should continue undressing while I destroy these offending pages.”   


  
“I need you to get me out of these things, besides which I need to write on those pages what you left out.”   


  
“What would that be, Sir?”   


  
“My hope, my future, my only chance at love is hidden under your bowler hat.” Suddenly he’s back for another kiss and I feel clothes being peeled from me. I guess I’ll have to time him later, next time. Can we do this every night for the rest of our lives? If not, I guess there’s always erotic literature!   



End file.
